Miles to go
by Mika Uriah
Summary: I have a lot to think about, I muse. With miles to drive before I sleep.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: first S.O.A fic. sorry its not up to my usual standards. enjoy. read. review. no flames.

I'm sitting on the toilet seat of a gas station bathroom exactly 34 and a quarter miles out of town so know one will recognize me.

I guess I would be safer at home, but, It'll be too risky and I need more risk in my life like a fucking whole in my head; and yet, here I am:

In the middle of a gas station with grime on the concrete floor so thick I can't tell the original colour of the floor, or the material its made of for that matter, there is a cockroach hanging on the bare lightbulb above me, poor little guy looks like he is hanging on for dear life, God I know how he feels.

Its been a week since Weston and those goons raped me, and it seems like all I've been doing since then is holding the fuck on; God, all I want to do is fall apart but then I wouldn't be a very good Queen to the sons know would I?

Or a very good wife to Clay.

Jesus Fuck I know this would kill him, I want nothing more for him to hold me and kiss my hair and let me know in his gruff way that he still loves me.

He still desires me.

Its been a week since the rape and since the rape kit, Tara had given me. Fucking thing was more violating then the actual attack, she said the more brutal the attack he more swabs and samples they have to take.

Four vials of blood

Six swabs from various orifices

One black-light

Twenty-eight pills that I had to swallow

Forty photos from every angle possible

Sixteen stitches

Three immediate diseases they check for.

One Appointment in three months

Not that I was keeping count or anything.

Tara gave me the morning after pill, even though I told her I really didn't need it she told me to take it anyway as extra precaution. If I got sick in an hour after taking it I was supposed to tell her and if I didn't start to bleed in a week to take a pregnancy test.

As if I needed to worry about suck foolishness at my age.

I didn't throw it up, which surprised me considering I had to take all those pills on an empty stomach.

Of course though, I didn't bleed.

Bastard.

So hear I am holding a home pregnancy test in my hands and waiting, praying, hoping for the negative result: I feel like Juno MacGuff.

I feel like slitting my wrist.

You know this test is ridiculous; I should be worried about being a grandmother to Abel, not about being whether I should worry about if my menopause medication can be switched out for Prenatal vitamins.

I put my head in my hands and think long and hard.

If the test comes out negative, then obviously I don't have to tell Clay and we can go on with our marriage and our family, and our work with the sons and the bar and everything will be hunky-freaking-dory.

If the test is positive. Fucking Christ, I wouldn't have to worry about killing Weston, cause Clay would surely do it.

Of course I won't have to tell, Clay. I could make an appointment and act like this whole ugly incident never happened.

Could I do it? Could I really?

I know I can go through the appointment, thats not what I'm worried about.

What I'm really worried about, is, could I really go on as if this ugly incident never happened.

I look at the EPT box again.

Three minutes. Longest. Three. Minutes. Ever.

Could I do it? I know I have this attitude where I can kick ass and take names, but, seriously, I'm not that confident in myself.

I know I can kill when and if I had to, no questions asked.

Can I go on being married to Clay and perform my wifely duties to him at night, and not have to worry about feeling Weston and his men all over me?

Not have to worry about freaking out when Clay enters me.

Not have to worry about any of the flash backs. Me slugging Clay in my sleep when he puts his arms around me, thinking that its Weston.

I swallow.

Its not like I'll have to worry about any of this, he'll divorce me once he finds out that Weston's hands been all over me.

Throw me away like Tuesday night take out containers.

Or have me killed.

Worse?

I swallow again.

See? This is where being a good fucking Samaritan gets you.

I hear a baby's choking and here I am worrying about if I have to choke down telling Clay about my own baby now.

I look at the EPT test.

Negative.

Well,well...well now how the hell do I react?

Is sitting here with a dumbfounded expression on my face, appropriate?

Where is Miss. Manners when you need her, hmm? I'm sure there is an advice column out there somewhere: "what is the politically correct way to react when the rival leader of your husband's biker gang rapes you." tell me Miss Manners. Do I send him a copy of a Tori Amos song? How about a bullet through his skull?

Oh well, I can go another day without having to worry about what Clay would do to me or what the Sons would do.

All that panic for nothing.

I sigh and flush the toilet I was sitting on all that time.

I sigh again.

I get back in my car and adjust my rearview mirror.

I have a lot to think about, I muse.

With miles to drive before I sleep.


End file.
